


Pink Socks

by Fatebegins



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Pack Family, Pack Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:30:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fatebegins/pseuds/Fatebegins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don’t deserve to be angry that she’s gone, I know that, but fuck, Stiles, I am. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pink Socks

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from. I was writing for "Someday Came Today" and I started to think about the role of expectant fathers in miscarriages and I wrote this in one go.
> 
> It's heavy stuff folks, I won't lie, but I rather like the way it came out. I shed a few tears writing it because my family has experienced the miscarriage spoken of, so have tissues handy. You've been warned.

She'd barely been more than an idea,  a thought shared between laughter and smiles.  
  
She was a wish whispered between lovers in the quiet of  night beneath the bright moon that gave him life.  
  
Stiles thought she’d favor Derek, wanted her to have dark hair and green eyes, and what he called ‘an adorably sullen’ disposition.    
  
Derek just wanted her to be healthy, to take a breath and cry with a strength that would make her real.  
  
From the start they’d both known how tenuous it was, but it’d been far too easy to forget every word the specialists said in the safety of the darkness. When the world consisted of just the two of them, there was no fear, no doubts, they’d planned for the future as if it was a certainty.  
  
After Stiles passed his first trimester, he came home with a shopping bag filled with yellow onsies.  Derek will never forget the color in his cheeks, the way his tee shirt stretched ever so slightly over his stomach. He said he couldn’t resist when he saw them;  printed on each tiny shirt, across the chest, was ‘hungry like a wolf.’  
  
They tell the pack after Stiles clears his fourth month, when amidst his concern, the doctor lets them know that ‘it’ is actually she, and that she would most likely not survive with the severe congenital heart defect he detected.  
  
Despite this, Stiles remained positive. He didn’t break down, didn’t make a scene, just gripped Derek’s fingers tightly.    
  
On the way home, Stiles had turned to him and said:  
  
“I’m scared.”  
  
Not knowing the right words, not having the ability to calm his own racing heart and painful apprehension, Derek had lied.  
  
“Don’t be, it will be okay.”  
  
Not even a month later and he had awoken to the smell of blood, thick and cloying. The sheets were sticky against his side and Stiles’ eyes had shown white, body gripped in seizure as both hands twisted in the sheets.  
  
When it’s all over, when the nurses have changed the sheets and given Stiles a mild sedative, Derek is left alone with her for a few moments.  
  
_She_ is this tiny scrap of humanity, body small and shriveled; her skin so new and fragile. Baby pink. Her eyes are closed, lashed unformed. But she has hair, his hair, black and surprisingly full.  
  
That night, after they take her body away, while Stiles curls in on himself, hands over his empty stomach, Derek had struggled not to make a sound. His tears are not the ones that should be given precedence. So with a strength he never knew he was capable of, Derek seals his emotions, forces himself to comfort his mate when he's seconds away from falling part himself.  
  
Stiles is in the hospital for three more days and Derek takes that time to do what is hardest.

The empty room across from their own-- the one that had been renovated by the pack over the course of several Saturday afternoons amidst paint fights and pizza parties--needs to be dealt with.  
  
Derek touches the fresh mint green of the walls, fingers lingering over the delicate white design done in Lydia’s careful hand bordering the light switch.  The room was nearly complete, just waiting for the child they all anticipated.  
  
Toys and Teddy bears line the mahogany cradle. Isaac had brought them the little stuffed black wolf, expression sheepish and hopeful as he thrust it at them. Not even a day later and Allison drove up with the antique dresser, not to be outdone Scott bought a rocking chair and Boyd a beautiful hand woven rug of yellow, violet and green.  
  
Against the back wall, the crib is still in it’s box, it had been delivered four days ago.  
  
Throughout it all, Derek had tried not to get excited but Stiles’ hope had been contagious. He’d wanted her so badly, that piece of him. 

Drawing a shaky breath, Derek turns on the light and gets to work. He packs it all up, the plush dolls and tiny outfits; the burp cloths and sparkly hair bows.  
  
Derek opens the last drawer of the dresser and his breath chokes him.  
  
Little pink socks.  
  
The doctor had told them to prepare for the worst, and he‘d _tried_. He’d reigned in every tug of love that burst inside of him when she kicked, tried to detach himself because he knew, from the moment he’d heard his daughter’s mismatched heartbeat the third week of her conception, that she would be gone too soon.  
  
But on that day he’d seen the pink socks, lined with delicate white lace, and before he knew what he was doing, they were in his hand. No one knew about his purchase, not even Stiles.  
  
Eyes stinging, Derek’s fingers tighten on the little scraps of material for a moment before he tosses them into the packed cardboard box.  
  
***  
  
The ride back home from the hospital is completely silent.

Stiles is seated in the back seat, sandwiched between his father and Scott, bruised lids closed in sleep. Derek is grateful for the silence, he finds it easier to hide in the quiet. All Stiles wants to do is speak of _her_ , and even though Stiles is the one who suffered the miscarriage, carried her and felt her grow inside of him,  it hurts too much for Derek to talk.  
  
Erica and Boyd are sitting on the porch when Derek pulls the car up. The kitchen is packed with food and no one seems to want to let a single second of silence fall. Derek excuses himself early on, retreats to the bedroom and tries not to look across the hall. When he wakes to find the bed empty, Derek follows Stiles’ scent to the guest bedroom.  
  
For the next few days the house is packed. Stiles is surrounded by family, his father and friends. No one asks  Derek how he feels, Stiles looks into the empty nursery and his eyes are only filled with accusation no gratitude.  
  
  
***  
  
“Are you coming to bed?”  
  
It’s been two weeks and for the first time the house is empty.  
  
“Yeah,” Derek shuts the desk drawer, hiding the little pink sock he’d saved from the Salvation Army collection. “In a minute.”  
  
“What are you doing down here?”  
  
“Just pack stuff.”  
  
Stiles looks unsure for a moment but then walks further inside. “Can I help?”  
  
“I’m just about finished.”  
  
Wordlessly, Stiles takes his hand. He’s lost nearly all of the weight he’d put on with her, thin frame lost beneath the sweatshirt and pajama pants.  
  
When they reach their room, Stiles gets into bed and pulls Derek in after him. He tucks in close to Derek’s side, arms wrapped around him tightly. It’s the first time they’ve slept together like this since that night.  
  
It’s not right, he can smell saline.  
  
“Don’t be mad at me anymore.” Stiles says into his chest and Derek is certain no pain can be greater than this. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“You have _nothing_ to be sorry for.”  
  
When Derek tries to bring his face up, Stiles refuses.  
  
“After. You wouldn’t even look at me.”  
  
“That wasn’t.” Derek swallows hard over the furious beat of his heart. “I’m angry, Stiles because _I_ did this. _I_ caused this.”  
  
“That’s not true.”  
  
“You should be in college, halfway to an amazing career.  Instead, I’ve kept you trapped in this dead end town, brought all this werewolf shit into your life and impregnated you despite knowing the risks of mating with a human.”  
  
“Not all mixed pregnancies end in miscarriage.” Stiles counters quietly, “And I wanted this life, Derek; a life with you and the pack.”  
  
“I don’t deserve to be angry that she’s gone, I know that, but fuck, Stiles, I am. I can barely breathe because she should have been here! We should’ve heard her cry and you should have held her. _And you should smile_. You deserve that-- all of that and more --but since you met me ... I haven't given you happiness. I've caused you pain.”

  
“Derek, I’m not going to lie, this has been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with, but we deal with it _together_. We both lost her, Derek, not just me.” Stiles shudders, rises up to catch Derek’s face between his calloused palms. “And even if…even with losing her. If I could go back; I’d still chose you.”  
  
There are no words Derek can offer to rival his mate’s devotion, so he speaks with the honesty only a kiss can offer, cloaks Stiles in his scent and prays for a time when this deep wound will be a distant ache.  
  
“I love you.” Stiles says against his lips. “We will always be _us_ , no matter what.”  
  
Gently, Derek breaks the kiss, shifts down on the bed until he’s level with Stiles’ stomach.

The round curve that once fit so perfectly against his palm is gone, his belly nearly back to it’s normal flat planes.  
  
Derek lays his head against his abdomen anyway.  
  
There had been so many nights where  Derek would drift off to sleep with her heartbeat beneath his ear. “ I miss her.”  
  
Three words he’s been holding in for so long.  
  
“I know.” Stiles touches his cheek gently, catches the moisture he finally allows to fall “Me too.”  
  
***  
  
Four years later and the hospital remains the same.  
  
The same white walls, the same sterile scent.  
  
Derek remembers her, the thickness of her hair, the way she fit entirely in his palm. He’d always remember her as something sacred amongst the sting of death, the smell of antiseptic.  
  
Eight and a half long months and Derek just wants him to be healthy, to take a breath and cry with a strength that would make him real.    
  
Stiles’ hand tightens on his, and their son yells his welcome to the world.


End file.
